


We're all made of stars

by lilith_morgana



Series: Swtor: Adeve Vreen [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8726977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: It’s romantic, absurd, occasionally tragic. A smuggler's tale.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a character study I wrote for my smuggler, Adeve, while wrapping up her class story missions in the game. There's a faint hint of future Smuggler/Theron Shan romance if you squint.

  
  
  
She tells people she was born on a cargo ship headed for Corellia. Sometimes it’s Naboo. Or Cloud City when she’s feeling adventurous.   
  
_Right in the middle of a hyperspace jump_ , she might add if the mood strikes her. It often does.   
  
She’s born in a proper medcentre right in the heart of Ord Mantell City or so her records state, anyway. You hardly ever remember being born. She definitely doesn’t.   
  
She’s Adeve D’haria Vreen, named after her grandmother, starting her life with a head full of hair - thick, curly, dark brown - and just the right amount of fingers and toes.   
  
Her mother works as a janitor at a small apartment complex near the medcentre and as a cleaner at Xora’s Diner right across the street; her father is nowhere to be seen and never spoken of. If she asks, her mother makes up stories for her, a different one each time. Adeve doesn’t miss him, doesn’t know what there’s to miss. Hugs, maybe. Her friend Lora has a dad who lifts her up in the air and hugs her, hard and tight, whenever he’s back from one of his flights. Hugs and the smell of starships.   
  
She’s raised on leftovers from the cantina, loud music, her mother’s tired face and _stardust_ , swirling into her wildest dreams.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells people she enlisted when she was old enough. Tells them she was a soldier for a while then got fed up and left, stole a ship and navigated right out of the system before anyone had even noticed she was gone. _Too many regs, it cramped my style! I need to be allowed a little flair!_ For some she spins a tale of scavenging and adventures, living from day to day on found treasures and hidden gems. It’s romantic, absurd, occasionally tragic.   
  
Adeve is eight when her mother dies. Short scrawny little kid with perpetually bruised knees and bad eyesight (later _terrible_ eyesight, then cybernetic eyesight but that’s years away and nothing her mother would ever be able to pay for). She tries to hide in the apartment when security and foster care agency arrives, two humans with pretend-kind faces and hands that smell of soap.   
  
There’s a foster family. Then another one. The third one is a nightmare keeping her awake all night, curled up in bed with her hands tense and open, ready to attack. She stays for a while, stays for Bhel, her foster brother because he’s too small to fight back and no one should have to fight alone. But then, in the end, she runs away.   
  
It’s frantic, haphazard, most definitely not romantic.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
She tells people she’s a trained assassin, a slicer or an actress if she’s in a fancy sort of mood, longing for a mysterious air and elaborate make-believe. When someone asks about her quick draw and skills with blasters she claims to be a natural gun nut. Looking at weapon upgrades the way others look at porn. It makes for a better story. The truth is that she purchases a blaster pistol using stolen credits in order to defend herself against pirates and spice dealers and then she practises, out in the desert and whenever she can, firing until her hands ache and her eyes tear up. She learns to shoot because she is afraid to die. (Many years later she wonders if that is not the case for most people, but either way it’s not a good cantina-tale.)   
  
There’s an ill-reputed cantina on Tatooine and she calls it home for almost a year when she’s fled Ord Mantell and her foster family placements.   
  
_The leftovers of the galaxy_ , some say as they sit there and watch the entertainment. _Even Taris offers better dancers than this._ Adeve wouldn’t know, she’s never been to Taris and by the sound of it, she hopes she never has to set foot there. This desert dump is bad enough.   
  
She’s fourteen and her body could still belong to a child but her mouth is filthy and her nerves are made of steel. She never flinches. Rapid instincts and fast on her feet, she moves around the seedy visitors and potentially dangerous encounters like prey in the jungle, navigates her body like a starship.   
  
There’s an ill-reputed cantina and an older woman - a scavenger and a regular, her face is scarred, her voice low, it’s a voice for secrets and negotiations in the shadows.   
  
“You’re young,” she says to Adeve the first time she’s served her a badly done burger with limp, tasteless side dishes resembling various exotic diseases. “You ought to have a better place to go.”   
  
“Well, I don’t,” Adeve says, hands planted stubbornly at the sides of her waist as if she’s trying to prove herself or a point; she’s not sure which. “So there’s that.”   
  
The woman nods. “I’m Laino.”   
  
Day after day Adeve serves food and Corellian brandy to Laino and day after day she endures long-winded tales of scavenging, explanations of how to gather the best material and how to make the most credits from it. She can’t remember ever asking about any of it but she gets tips and sometimes, when the cantina is roaring with creepy old mercs and smugglers and Adeve feels like the child she is, Laino sort of _lingers_ , her presence like a cloak to hide in.   
  
“Some people need to escape,” Laino says many days later and helps her to a shuttle leaving for Bakura. “You just bring these droids to my contact there and we’ll get you set up.”   
  
It’s not a brilliant deal, all things considered; it’s the best offer anyone has ever given her.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells people she’s a city girl and that, at least, is some sort of half-truth. There’s a hum and a beat to the city that falls right into place with her wherever she travels. Tall buildings, massive advertising signs, crowds that smell and soar and push their way forward. She loves the city and perhaps the city loves her back but it’s out in the sun-filled middle of nowhere on Bakura that she finally catches her breath.   
  
It turns out Laino had, in fact, given her a job. And in the long run something even better - a ship. Back and forth through space, delivering droids and tech to the outskirts of the Republic and then back to Bakura.   
  
There are forests and plains and rivers and Adeve doesn’t feel like she’s on the run when only trees surround her.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells people she’s only ever smuggled droids and tech, that she has high standards, high morals; it gives her an edge of exclusivity, makes her elevated in comparison to the common traders you can find hordes of at every spaceport and marketplace around the galaxy. Depending on her audience she claims to deal solely with gems and rare materials, _an archaeologist's dream, yes that’s me_ .   
  
She’s eighteen and more or less settled on Bakura - place to stay, comfortable couch, big bed with occasional guests, a steady flow of credits thanks to her growing collection of underworld contacts. She’s quick and quiet, gets the job done. _You kids are the best smugglers_ , one of her clients tell her. _Eager to please, hungry for credits._   
  
Then Bhel shows up with a ship full of spice.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She plays Two Truths and A Lie with a face that seems like it was created for pazaak, conjuring up stories like others breathe.   
  
She talks at great length about all the heists she’s been carrying out, as if a long string of successful runs is an occupation that would leave her where she is now: moderately poor, owning nothing in this galaxy beyond a small starship, a few boxes of tech and guns and some nice outfits that show off her tits and ass. _This reminds me of when I smuggled black diamonds out of the ruling family’s fortresses on Alderaan_ , she says. _Your ship looks like the freighter in the Outer Rim - nothing but ancient relics in it, a whole cargo!_   
  
She tells people she was a swoop racer who had to quit when she pissed off a powerful Hutt with enough credits to his name to banish her from all competition for the rest of her life. That’s one of her best stories; people usually believe her until they see her drive. She makes up a husband or a wife patiently waiting for her on a remote colony somewhere.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells people she’s an orphan - that’s not even a lie, just a spin of the ordinary, banal events leading up to how her life unfolded. She tells them her parents were adventurers, scholars on important missions across the galaxy and that they had died in dramatic accidents or forever gone missing. If they ask for details she mix them up a little bit, add new ones to her old and reliable favorite lies and withdraw some of the more incredulous stuff from others. _Stars, why would you lie about yourself like that?_ Someone asks her once. Indra. She’s a genius and a con artist with a gravely voice, perfect for dirty talk and late night comforts. _In the end that’s all you’ve got, babe. Yourself. Don’t mess it up. Lie about shit that doesn’t matter._   
  
She’s twenty-one and spills the secrets of Bhel’s spice trade to a police droid on Dantooine, then to a plain-looking man in a weird-looking police building where the light seems to be greyed out by the panels on the walls. As if someone’s decided it can’t get too bright in there, as if crime doesn’t solve itself if the sun’s up. Adeve rubs her heels against the floor where she sits, fretting quietly to herself.   
  
“Bhel is not your brother, is he?” the man asks. “His records mention no siblings-” he looks at his holopad again. “-only a deceased father and a mother living on Ord Mantell.”   
  
That shudder through her body every time, the ghosts roaming through her.   
  
She shakes her head. “Not my brother, no.”   
  
Later, with the plain-looking man’s legs criss-crossed with her own in a small bed in his apartment, Adeve makes damp breaths on his skin and breaks all the rules of Two Truths and a Lie by piling up her truths like he’s offering her credits for them. Hard to say why, the confessions flood out of her like sunlight or rain.   
  
“Do you miss her?” he asks.   
  
“Who, my mum?” She lets her index finger rub casually across the scattered red hair on his chest. “Not anymore.”   
  
It’s not a lie, not exactly. Sometimes it’s a sudden sorrow that hauls through her, easily mistaken for hunger or desire; sometimes it’s merely a little echo in her bones, a sound that she carries with her everywhere she goes.   
  
“They will look for your foster brother as soon as possible,” the plain-looking man mumbles, his fingers running through her hair. It’s growing long now; she’s always kept it short, a habit from her childhood when her mum would do close-crops every other month, claiming it was easier to keep clean that way.   
  
Adeve kisses him again, climbing on top.   
  
He knows everything about her now, she thinks as she fucks him once more. She doesn’t even know his name. If he told her, she’s already forgotten.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells Darmas she’ll visit him in prison. Tells it with her best lying face, the tone she has worked on until it’s as near perfection as anyone could possibly imagine; she cocks a fleeting grin at him even though his schemes has reached too far beneath the surface, hit much too deep.   
  
Bhel is pale when they fetch him as she comes to see him. Four times, she counts in her head. She’s been here four times and it feels like a hundred. She wonders how many it will feel like before she’s done, before she’s paid her dues and soothed her fractured conscience.   
  
“Never would have pegged you as a prissy little hero.” He glares at her, chewing on his thumbnail.   
  
“That’s because I’m not. But fucking _spice_ ?” Adeve shakes her head. “That’s pretty much just one step away from slaves. Same fucking area.”   
  
When he gets out two years later she helps him find a job as a cleaner and a place to stay and it’s the last she ever hears from him.     
  
She doesn’t know if he goes to work, if he pays his rent. She doesn’t know if he steers clear of the tempting bullshit along the way, if he slips and falls every time someone offers him _a perfect opportunity, the perfect heist._   
  
She doesn’t really want to find out.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She tells people she can’t _fathom_ being tied down by promises, that she rejects them on principle, dodges them as they come at her. _Sharp as a lightsaber, travelling at the speed of light_ . It’s a good tale for cantinas, goes down well with a certain crowd that wants to find someone for the night and take off again. Suits her just fine, she tells them and it’s not exactly a lie. Not necessarily always true either but it doesn’t have to be.     
  
She’s six and her mother’s not at home. One more hour, she knows; her chrono will beep when it’s time to go to bed. _Promise to be a good kid now_ . Adeve lies flat on her stomach on the floor, drawing jungle animals and starships and listens to the neighbours outside, arguing about the lack of parking space and the heating. It’s one of those things her mom ought to repair. When she has the time. Adeve thinks of her mom’s tired voice, her tired eyes, her tired, tired steps and her hands, tucking Adeve in when she returns home from one of her works. It’s too late for bedtime stories by then, much too late for anything, so they just sleep together, pressing their bodies into each other for warmth and comfort and Adeve wakes up and falls asleep again to her mom’s voice.   
  
She’s nine and Bhel’s arm is so skinny she can wrap her fingers around it when they sit together, shoulder to shoulder and mouths closed, breathing through their noses in a dark room. He asks her every day if she will leave, like the rest of the foster children. She tells him every day that she won’t.   
  
She’s twenty-nine and swears loyalty to the Galactic Republic with a little beat in her head, a jagged sort of voice in there telling her to run for it, to find the loopholes in the contract, grab a bunch of credits for good effort and set course for Wild Space. There’s still time to escape or that’s at least what she tells herself as she walks the steps - _five hundred and forty-five_ \- from the bottom of the ridiculously massive Coruscant stairs to where Saresh is, overlooking the events like a stand-in god.   
  
She’s no god and Adeve is no hero but there’s truth - hard, sharp, brittle - in the words when they spill out of her mouth.     
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
“You’re more slippery than I am,” Agent Theron Shan tells her in a cantina at the Republic fleet once, back when they’ve just met. He leans forward into the conversation, sounding genuinely amused by his own observations. She, in turn, is amused by his choice of words. “And I’m pretty good at avoiding straight-up answers if I can. Can’t believe the SIS hasn’t recruited you.”   
  
Adeve leans back in her seat, crossing her legs and sipping her latest drink. For a minute or five she’d like to pretend they’re not here on business (they are), that the recent months haven’t made a workaholic out of her (they have) and that this handsome agent in front of her isn’t merely trying to talk her into another suicide run (he is). She had thought Korriban was bad enough but things has escalated quickly and sometimes a woman just needs to have some booze and rest her eyes on an attractive sample of her preferred type. And apparently it just so happens that clever agents are hers.   
  
“What makes you so sure they haven’t tried?” she asks.   
  
“I checked.”   
  
“I see.” The drink is a little too bitter for her taste but she can’t be bothered to order a replacement so instead she swallows it in big gulps. Shan gives her a quick smile. A fleeting sort. Suits him well, she thinks. “So, what happens now?”   
  
If he’d allow her to be in charge, they would pay for their drinks and get to a comfy room somewhere, preferrably one with a bed. Agent Shan looks like he’d be a good fuck and she haven’t had one of those since, well, Darmas and if she’s going to die on her next mission she doesn’t want to go out like that, not with him as her last partner.   
  
When she looks at him again, properly and without the blissful cantina filter, she knows he’ll steer this in a much less thrilling direction.     
  
“Well, the real question is, are you going to take your shiny medal and go home like Darok’s hoping, or are you ready to start digging?” His gaze is fastened on hers, like glue.   
  
Adeve thinks about stardust, thinks about escape routes and plan Bs and the whole chain of luck and decision that has carried her to this seat in this cantina.   
  
“Where would one start,” she asks then, already knowing this particular decision is going to bite her in the ass at some point. “If one was going to dig?”   
  
Later, on her way back to her ship her holopad beeps:   
  
_Tell me one truth? Just so I have something to go on. /T_   
  
Grinning, Adeve sends her reply: _Prefer my drinks sweet, not sour. /A_  
  
  
  



End file.
